At the Movies
Wherever Chris and Evan were, Harry hoped they were happy. Not really but he wore that game face every time somebody asked, usually after inquiries as to how he was healing.
Very well, thank you although I've been promised one hell of a case of early arthritis in the shoulder the bullet finally lodged in. All the same, he'd been shot and was still alive to talk about it so complaining seemed ingrateful.
Rob was just starting his seven year sentence for attempted murder. Good luck and I hope you keep Vaseline handy. Prisoners don't get beaten up as easily as say, your wife.
And Harry was back at the magazine. The managing editor, wincing from time to time when he moved his arm the wrong way but generally back in the groove he had chosen after Intaglio fell apart. He worked hard and played...not at all. After eleven or so hours at the magazine, he usually got home to a couple of beers or a whiskey or four just to take the edge off. Must be one hell of an edge, Harry steeled himself every night. It wasn't until the eighth Tuesday morning hangover that he realized normal people don't work this way and put the bottle down, save for weekends. So he watched TV, read or stared at the wall for hours from time to time humming Zevon songs from "The Wind" to himself.
It may have been in an editorial meeting: He might have paused or stumbled over a lineup about some relationship story. He might have looked out the window a moment too long. Watching someone get dropped off at the office, kissing goodbye and Harry catching himself that he was heading towards staring at what was not his business. Or it may have been as simple as locker room banter before a run with the boys. After all, he had been shot in the shoulder and not the leg. Whatever the case, Mike Caruso picked up on something that everybody else was seeing too. Harry was lonely. The boss needed someone to talk to about something other than running the magazine. One day it hit Mike that he was sending freelance work out to his friend Kathy and Kathy was single and Harry was a decent guy so what was there to lose?
Harry brushed him aside. Thanks, but I'm ok and will get through this all right.
Sure you will Harry, Mike said and pressed the email address into his palm anyway.
Harry mumbled thanks, cleared his throat and went back to his office. He toyed with the post-it for a few minutes and then put it in his wallet. Mike would be offended if he threw it away here.
And then one Friday night, when Harry allowed himself to and did have a tumbler of whiskey over the week's home emails, he took the post-it out of his wallet and tacked it to the bulletin board next to his computer. The note from Mike: Kathy's email.
He reads some more of the week's accumulated spam, some notes from his friend George out in Iowa, some blogs he likes to surf and keep current on and then he looks back at the post-it.
Well, what can it hurt?
Dear Kathy: Starts the email.
Can I waste an hour of your time?
Very well, thank you although I've been promised one hell of a case of early arthritis in the shoulder the bullet finally lodged in. All the same, he'd been shot and was still alive to talk about it so complaining seemed ingrateful.
Rob was just starting his seven year sentence for attempted murder. Good luck and I hope you keep Vaseline handy. Prisoners don't get beaten up as easily as say, your wife.
And Harry was back at the magazine. The managing editor, wincing from time to time when he moved his arm the wrong way but generally back in the groove he had chosen after Intaglio fell apart. He worked hard and played...not at all. After eleven or so hours at the magazine, he usually got home to a couple of beers or a whiskey or four just to take the edge off. Must be one hell of an edge, Harry steeled himself every night. It wasn't until the eighth Tuesday morning hangover that he realized normal people don't work this way and put the bottle down, save for weekends. So he watched TV, read or stared at the wall for hours from time to time humming Zevon songs from "The Wind" to himself.
It may have been in an editorial meeting: He might have paused or stumbled over a lineup about some relationship story. He might have looked out the window a moment too long. Watching someone get dropped off at the office, kissing goodbye and Harry catching himself that he was heading towards staring at what was not his business. Or it may have been as simple as locker room banter before a run with the boys. After all, he had been shot in the shoulder and not the leg. Whatever the case, Mike Caruso picked up on something that everybody else was seeing too. Harry was lonely. The boss needed someone to talk to about something other than running the magazine. One day it hit Mike that he was sending freelance work out to his friend Kathy and Kathy was single and Harry was a decent guy so what was there to lose?
Harry brushed him aside. Thanks, but I'm ok and will get through this all right.
Sure you will Harry, Mike said and pressed the email address into his palm anyway.
Harry mumbled thanks, cleared his throat and went back to his office. He toyed with the post-it for a few minutes and then put it in his wallet. Mike would be offended if he threw it away here.
And then one Friday night, when Harry allowed himself to and did have a tumbler of whiskey over the week's home emails, he took the post-it out of his wallet and tacked it to the bulletin board next to his computer. The note from Mike: Kathy's email.
He reads some more of the week's accumulated spam, some notes from his friend George out in Iowa, some blogs he likes to surf and keep current on and then he looks back at the post-it.
Well, what can it hurt?
Dear Kathy: Starts the email.
Can I waste an hour of your time?
posted by The Caustic Bunny at 11:14 PM
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